When the World Ends
by Cannecan
Summary: To say that France as a personified nation was simple, or rather "simple minded" listed somewhere near the top of The Most Hideously Conceived Untruths Pertaining to France as a Personified Nation.


**Disclaimer : I own nothing. Never have, never will. **

**This was conceived, written, and edited back in 2012. Read at your own risk.**

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To say that France as a personified nation was simple, or rather "simple minded" listed somewhere near the top of The Most Hideously Conceived Untruths Pertaining to France as a Personified Nation; an extensively listed array of hearsay, myths, and paltry lies that mostly came from a tongue that would spew nonsense in a fit raging denial rooted in _l'amour,_ and all of which were immediately complied in to a list of hand-written, elegantly slanted script of none-other than France himself.

The looping singular word "simple" claimed its place on the neat piece of tapped together parchment somewhere in-between the defamatory rumor that France once bedded a goat, and the laughable argument that the Italy Brothers held a superior palate when it came to both cuisine and wine (if only by a slight margin of preference, which held plenty of room for error and was always under subject to change. Still, it was the principle of the matter).

No, France himself was not a simple man. He could boast the ability to enjoy the simple things in life; but he most often chose to boast his ability to enjoy the more hedonistic things, and even more often times quite elaborately flamboyant things: that by no means made him "simple-minded", or in a whole, "simple."

Sometimes, though, he wished this to not be the case.

France could craft an entirely different list on specifically detailed moments in his incredibly long life telling of times where he wished to trade lives with a hermit and live in absolute solitude until his last dying day; if for no other reason than to find this missing element to his not simple life, which he called peace.

These times often occurred in less than simple times of war, or economical issues, or revolutions, or civil wars, or diseases, or famine, or the ever disagreeable England. But even throughout tough times, and irate paramours and their disgruntle monarch; France held out on giving up on his idealistic hope that one day, just one single day, he would have a moment of peace for himself.

Despite his best efforts to achieve this long sought after goal, though, France had still yet to accomplish this seemingly simple task.

So he should have known better when he got up in the morning, dressed to his toes in the most comfortable, warm, and - naturally - most flattering outfit he owned to spend the rest of his day lazing about his Paris townhome sitting snuggly in-between the Seine and robustly colorful Le Marais. After yet another week of not-simple meetings and not-simple politicians that insisted on shouting about not-simple resolutions to not-simple problems in a not-simple world, and topping it all off with the ever not- _not-_ _ **not**_ -simple temperament of a certain Island nation and their adamant refusal to have sex anywhere outside of the bedroom: _"-no, that does not includes the bloody bath! I don't care if it's technically connected to the bedroom, it is not a part of it!"_

After yet another day out of another year out of another decade out of another century out of another millennium - France should have really known by now that even if the day appeared innocent and seemed like it would, maybe, finally be peaceful, that it simply would not.

But France didn't worry his mind about what would disrupt his beautiful morning. He took his day in stride and just hoped that no one start a riot over wages while he took a bath scented with the rest of his lavender oil and a glass of wine cupped in his hand.

So when he sat down to enjoy a lovingly prepared coffee and his morning paper, his mind wasn't focusing on what was going to go wrong or when it was going to happen, but instead just routinely accepted that a disturbance was inevitable and the fact nestled itself in the back on his mind as he read over the weather forecast with a vague interest.

France would later look back at that moment and wonder whether it was he himself that signaled to the universe that it was time to start the chaos, or whether it was all just a strange coincidence, because it was no sooner than the moment France's eyes happened to cast their gaze over the day's date when his phone rang, and it merrily buzzed away over his kitchen counter top until he removed himself from his seat and picked the device up - all the while wondering why the date on the page seemed to strike a familiar chord with him as he absentmindedly accepted the call and raised the phone to his ear.

And that second.

In that day.

In that decade.

In that century.

In that millennium.

France realized why that specific date seemed to hold a sense of significance to it out of so many - because the French that came out of the earpiece was distorted and overshadowed by a much louder, much different, much more frantic, and much, _much_ more American vernacular.

 _"Francis! Francis! Francis! They can't make us leave! Tell them to let us in!"_

And it occurred to France why on earth he had even thought for even a moment that he would find peace _today._

"America, what are you-"

 _"The World, dude! The World is about to end and they're saying that we can't go up!"_

Go... _up_?

 _"The mountain! They said we can't go up the mountain! Why aren't you here yet? YOU NEED TO HURRY UP AND GET HERE!"_

"Amer-Alfred, why and which and for what purposes are you trying to scale a mountain?"

"Bugarach. Your mountain is it! The World's going to end if we can't talk Them out of it. Tony says that there's something big about to go down right here in your territory and YOU'RE NOT HERE."

"Tony... This is not in reference to _your_ Tony, now, is it, Alfred?"

Of course it was. France sighed, braced a hand on the counter and the phone in the crook of his neck and ear, and felt his temple for the impending headache.

"Of course it is - but, hey, Francis, don't hang up: seriously. It's not like last time! This is the real deal! You've-"

"Cher, come over since you're in the region. We will go out to dinner and discuss your issue then. See you soon. À tout à l'heure."

France ended the call. But, as France was accustom to these types of situations, he knew for certain that this would not be the end of the conversation.

After all, it never was.

Because these things were, of course, never simple. Life as a personified nation came with struggles beyond the normal comprehension of man, and sometimes beyond the normal comprehension of nations, too. Having a mountain which supposedly concealed a whole alien race was also never an easy thing to comprehend, either.

France gave a heavy sigh, shifted his weight back in an upright position, and accepted his day as it was going to be: Not quiet, not peaceful, and definitely, certainly, _not_ simple.

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 **OK. Remember back in 2012 when the world was suppose to end? Dec. 21st, 2012, to be precise? Well, apparently there is a mountain in France, the _Pic de Bugarach._ This mountain was believed to be the only safe haven on doomsday, and a lot of people actually showed up there trying to access the mountain on Dec. 21st, 2012. **

**When I heard this, I immediately thought of France's reaction to a frantic America trying to storm the mountain with Tony at his side. So, naturally, I jotted the idea down. Now, nearly five years later and I'm just now uploading it. Why? Because I fell out of the Hetalia fandom and then, recently, nostalgia hit. That's why.**


End file.
